


Stuck Inside My Dreams

by itsfio



Category: In Their Footsteps
Genre: Blood, Decapitation, F/M, Father Death, Nightmares, and i hope you have an even better new year, i hope you had a great christmas buddy, i wasnt sure if i should give this the graphic violence tag or not but went with it just to be safe, in terms of warnings:, its been an absolute pleasure knowing you and i thoroughly enjoyed writing this for you, leg/foot/ankle trauma, this was a gift for my very dear friend noah!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28331631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsfio/pseuds/itsfio
Summary: The castle was always eeriest at night.
Relationships: Marx/Viola
Kudos: 2





	Stuck Inside My Dreams

The castle was always eeriest at night. It was a massive, beautiful building, but as soon as the sun went down, the place felt sinister for a reason that was hard to place.

Perhaps it was the way the shadows seemed to stir at every corner, almost looking like moving, living creatures if you glanced at them and quickly away; but that was just a trick of the light, or lack thereof.

Maybe, it was the emptiness. During the day the castle was a bustling, busy place. For better or worse, wherever you looked there was something happening. There's always someone hurrying somewhere or guards standing their post resolutely, undeterred and unfazed by everything that wasn't a direct issue. They seemed almost like statues, their armor shining in the sunlight like the shiny jewelry of the noble ladies that made themselves common in the castle walls. 

Still, the emptiness wasn't truly so bad, though a little jarring at first. The emptiness allowed for the kind of running, jumping and playing that there was simply no room for during the day; it made the castle seem like a vast and open field, ripe for the taking of a young boy with no shortage of energy to burn.

The question remains, then. If it isn't the darkness that is truly so unsettling, nor the emptiness, what was it that truly made the castle so unbearable at night? that made just standing in its halls seem so tense, like it was a dangerous and wrong thing to do?

It was the silence.

During the day, the castle was loud and distracting with so many sounds it could make your head spin: the chatter and gossip of the noblewomen. The discussions and arguments of the gentlemen. The music of the royal musicians. The clanging of armor as guards patrolled. The jangling of jewelry. The footsteps, some hurried and some relaxed. The shouting. The sobbing. The laughter. 

Marx remembers the laughter more than anything; it stands out distinctly in his brain. So many kinds of laughter. The polite, restrained chuckles. The hysterical, knee-slapping guffawing. The haughty, snooty laughter of a joke at someone else's expense. The pity laughs. The mean-spirited snickers. The well-meaning giggles. So many kinds of laughter, nestled gently in his mind, stored away like a time capsule.

The one thing he remembers more than the laughter is the man who usually inspired it: his father.

In the stage of his memory, Marx remembers him through a child's eyes. A tall man, taller, surely, than all other men of the world! Stronger, kinder, more graceful! There were no men alive that could compete with his father, but who would want to? He was, surely, the most loved man alive! How could he not be? He made everyone laugh! He entertained hundreds- no, thousands- no, millions!   
But no one loved his father more than Marx. No one knew him like he did, either. Marx knew his father's morning routine, his hobbies, he could spot him in a crowd of thousands, he could pick out his voice in a sea of noise. When he grew up, hopefully, he would be like him. In a perfect world, he would grow up and make his father proud.

It was a wish destined to be bittersweet. He wouldn't understand until he was much older, but his father was already proud of him. The issue, therein, is that this is not a perfect world.

The thing he remembers, after his father and the laughter he created, is the color of his father's blood as it gushed from the stump where his head used to be. 

He hadn't considered that dark, deep red all that scary before. The color of scraped knees and papercuts, quickly and lovingly tended to. Now, as the blood pools around his body, slumped on the ground, Marx is overwhelmed, horrified. It's a strange thing to witness -- there's something inherently wrong with the way a man looks without his head, unsurprising in hindsight, but in the moment, he finds himself unable to look away. The shock and fear of it all constricts around his lungs, it feels so hard to breathe -- to do anything.

He hears the king shout an order but he doesn't understand it. The room is swirling around him, the moment feels loose and confusing. He tries to get a hold of himself and instead feels himself slip further into the hysteria. When guards swarm around him like vultures around a corpse, he thinks he knows what the king ordered of them.

One of them tries to grab him and he dodges without thinking about it, instinct providing him with protection. He turns on his heel and runs, ducking under a guard's legs as he books it. He hears the king shout again, but the words are loose and sticky and serve only to numb his mind further. The clanging of armor follows after him as the guards give chase.

He scrambles away from them, ducking under anything he can and rapidly turning corners. The layout of the castle feels instinctually wrong, unfamiliar, but he keeps running anyway. He gets the feeling that even if he wanted to, he couldn't stop. His legs would simply move on their own, honestly, it feels like that now, the corridors spinning around him in a blurry tango and his mind racing as fast as his legs.

Eventually, what feels like hours later, it comes screeching to a halt. He's inches from the door, the exit to the palace. In the back of his mind he just knows that if he can get out the door, he'll be ok! He must be! All he has to do is get there, get through it, he's so close!

The spear embedding itself in his ankle from behind stops him dead in his tracks. He falls to his knees, before they too crumble in on themselves and he lays on the floor chest down. He shivers, shakes and cries. The pain is agonizing, it feels like his leg, then the rest of his body, is on fire. It feels like he's dying. 

It feels... Wrong?   
He feels himself being flipped over. The person who speared his ankle rolling him over with their foot. He can barely see the castle anymore, all he sees is red. The walls melt and crack and distort. Then he gets a look at the guard. When he sees her face, it only further cements how off everything is. Something is not right. Something is terribly wrong. Why is this happening to him? Why couldn't she let him go? He was only a child! Why, why, why...

Amelia reaches down and yanks the spear out of his ankle none too kindly. Despite the new, horrifying, all-consuming pain, he can't scream. He opens his mouth as if to do so, but no sound is produced. The loudest sound he can make is a quiet whimper. If he could just talk to her, She'd let him go! Wouldn't she? He tries, but again, is met with only pain.

She raises her spear high above her head, clearly intending to kill him. He cries harder, he can't see her face through the tears. Is she crying too? Does she feel anything at all? Maybe she's smiling; had he angered her? Was this cathartic? Was she scared? Amused? Ambivalent? He wished he could know. He wished he could get away. He wished he could see his father one last time before he died. 

Through his tears, he sees the blurry outline of Amelia bring her spear down to his throat, and then he sees nothing.

"Hey, hey, it's alright, you're ok... Marx... Hey... It's ok..."

When he opens his eyes, he isn't in the castle. He isn't even in pain. He's in a body that's bigger and older, there's a blanket thrown off him, the remains of a campfire, other people sleeping in blankets and sleeping bags and...

When he turns his head, there she is. 

Viola's face is painted thickly with concern, her beautiful eyes are sick with worry as she sits on her knees by him. Her hand is on his shoulder, squeezing gently and rubbing with her thumb. Her hair is messy, she must have also been asleep.

As he looks at her, making steady eye contact, he feels himself wind down, remembering the events before he slept. The group had been out adventuring, trying to find a keepsake someone from the closest town had lost in the forest. Said forest is to their backs, they'd left it the other day. They were going to head back when Marx started to lag behind, exhausted. It'd been days since he slept, he needed a bit to get back on his feet. So they stayed, let him sleep for a day, then they were going to return to the town.

Yes, yes. That's right. they were out adventuring, all of them. He hadn't died in that castle after all. That explains why it all felt so wrong... 

His breathing slowly starts to even out. Viola watches quietly until he seems calm-ish again.

"I'm sorry for waking you... But- but you were sweating and flailing and almost hyperventilating...! I was worried it'd be worse if I didn't-"

"No, no, not at all." He clears his throat, his voice is a little raspy from sleeping so long. "Thank you, Viola."

She nods, but still looks disquieted. He doesn't blame her. 

"Do you want to talk-" She stops, reconsiders the question. "Are you ok?"

No.

"Yes, I'm fine." He stands, stretches his legs. He hears his bones and joints pop and he lets out a satisfied hum.

"I see..." She doesn't sound convinced. "I just wanted to make sure you were... You know, doing ok."

He nods at her. 

"I know, dear. You're always looking out for me."

There's a comfortable pause. The air is crisp and cool without being too cold, the clouds are gone, allowing for the stars to be visible. It's the time of year where the fireflies are at their most active. They flitter around, glowing in the plains the group had situated themselves. 

After a moment, Viola stands, dusting herself off. 

"Say," She starts, clearly after considering something. "I was going to step away and, ehm, take a breather. Would you like to join me?"

Marx looks at her, considers it, and then nods.

"Of course, wouldn't miss it for the world." 

Viola smiles at that, even in the dark he can see the blush in her cheeks. She motions for him to follow her, and he does. Moving without thinking, he follows her near automatically and feels strangely comfortable with that.

They walk for quite a bit; Viola eventually slows her pace just a touch. Only enough to loop arms with Marx as she walks. He takes note of the action but says nothing. For her sake, he tells himself. Surely not because he was nervous of making a fool of himself -- well, more so than usual, that is. Marx has no idea where they're going, but Viola walks with purpose, and he trusts her judgment well enough.  
It takes a bit of time, but before too long, they're there. Viola has taken them to a hill that sticks out of the plains gracefully, likely helped by the tall, beautiful tree. Just an oak, but the placing of it is so perfect, it feels like a fairytale. Viola leads them up the hill and Marx follows easily.

From up there, the world looks even more magical. The fireflies seem to dance in the air and he can see the leaves shake in the wind. The moon is a perfect crescent, surrounded by stars. It seems so perfect.

Viola unloops her arm from his and he has to hide his disappointment, but not for long. Before he has time to really be upset by the loss, Viola gently grabs his forearms, leading them to wrap around her waist. In turn, she brings hers to curl around his shoulders. 

She smiles up at him. Under the stars and surrounded by fireflies, she looks like an angel. He finds himself briefly stunned. The moon illuminates her features in the most beautiful way. How terribly unfair it is that he should be the only one to see her like this. He loves it. 

Viola is the one that starts swaying first. Gently moving to a tune only she can hear, but that's no matter, he simply follows her lead. Trusting her every move. It's not misplaced. After a moment, it feels like he can hear it too.

He spins them slowly, the two of them dancing together at a leisurely pace. Viola giggles quietly. Marx feels his head spin in turn. Before long, she can't help but rest her head on his chest, closing her eyes as she enjoys the moment. He hopes she can't hear how loud his heart is beating. If she can, she makes no comment, only humming contentedly.

Marx finds himself lowering his head to hers, placing a kiss at the top without realizing it. This also goes without discussion from either of them. He turns his head to rest on top of hers, his cheek on her hair. Following Viola's example, he closes his eyes.

The pain and fear of the earlier nightmare is completely gone, like it simply hadn't existed. The effect she had on him was undeniably strong. Some days it felt like she was the only one who truly understood him, who truly got the way his mind works. Case and point, Marx couldn't help but think that this was a much needed distraction. Where would he be without her?

It isn't until the early hours of morning that they leave their spot, eventually ending their quiet dance. When they came back to the camp, the early birds of the group were only just starting to wake up. 

No one notices them holding hands.


End file.
